PV: Yo, Big, what's going down on the street?
BB: Same crap, different day. Oscar is complaining, Bert and Ernie are hanging out in the closet and Count Von Count is into his usual OCD routine. I need to get out of here, man. It's been decades with this same exact gig. My agent doesn't know what the hell he's doing.
PV: So you're ready to move on, huh? I always thought you'd be a Sesame Street lifer. You always looked like you were having such a good time.
BB: It's acting, baby. My craft. I'm into the whole method thing. Live it, breathe it, experience it and sell it to your audience. It's all a lie, my whole public image. I've been in and out of depression for 15 years now. My performance evaluations are always miserable, and the raises the tight-assed management gives out are comically small. We need to at least unionize or something.
PV: I'd vote Cookie Monster as your union treasurer.
BB: Yeah, right. I wouldn't trust that gluttonous fool around loose cash. You think cookies are the only things he can't stop consuming? You should see the guy when he goes off on benders of Scotch, hashish and prostitutes in Amsterdam. It's incredible that lifestyle of his hasn't driven him into the grave.
PV: Cookie Monster's a drug and whore addict? I'd never have known! Next thing you'll tell me is Snuffleupagus is a Scientologist!
BB: Snuff ain't real, bro. Ever wonder why I'm the only one who can see him? It's a total LSD flashback, I guess. The whole Haight-Ashbury scene during the psychadelic area really led me astray.
PV: Wow, I never figured you for an acid dropper.
BB: I did some wild stuff back in the day. You don't even wanna know. So many women.
PV: You slept with actual woman? Gross.
BB: No, I mean female birds, friend. Tons of 'em. Partridges, parakeets, storks, even an ostrich every once in a while.
PV: Ostriches, huh?
BB: Yeah, it's so hot when they stick their faces in the dirt, all bent over. Oh, man.
PV: You're disgusting.
BB: Nothing's disgusting about free love, man. We were gonna change the world. No war, no politics, and material things didn't mean a thing.
PV: And now look at you. You've completely sold out all your ideals. You're nothing but a corporate shill who complains he's not paid enough. Where did you go wrong?
BB: I don't know, man. Somewhere along the way I lost sight of all that I held dear, and now I'm just some letter jockey. Today's letter is F. For forlorn.